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  I laugh. “Well, I’m sold, if that counts for anything.”

  “It does. It’s corny, but I do actually believe in this thing,” he tells me. “I think there’s a hole in the marketplace. I just have to convince these suits.” He pauses for a moment, frowning at the highway. “Anyway, it’ll be fine. Mason’s a bigshot, sure, but at the end of the day he’s just a person, right? Like any other person.”

  “Right,” I agree, glancing over at him. He’s nervous, I realize suddenly. For the first time since I’ve met him, Ryan Callahan is showing that he’s a mere mortal, and not just a supremely charming, outrageously attractive sports god.

  Is it weird I like him better this way?

  Once we get to the hotel in Miami, we check into our (separate) rooms. Ryan hits the beach for a workout—“It relaxes me”—and I hit the shops. I spend the afternoon in the Design District replacing my dearly departed wardrobe, chatting with friendly salesgirls as I load up on the essentials. By the time I get back to the hotel for a shower and quick blowout in the salon downstairs I’ve got just enough time to shimmy into my new white cocktail dress, adding a pair of tall wedge sandals and some tasteful gold jewelry before heading downstairs to catch a cab to meet Ryan. In the car, I get a text from Hallie.

  So? How’s life on the other side of the desk?

  I smile. When she heard I was the one going out on assignment this time, Hallie thought it was hilarious. She’s convinced that Ryan and I are going to wind up like her and Max, and she won’t be convinced otherwise.

  All good here, I write back. Very professional.

  Oh yeah? ;)

  Yes!

  It’s not even a lie. After all, I’ve followed the script to the letter. We’ve faked affection, but only in public, and I haven’t said or done anything that would cross the line.

  My thoughts, on the other hand . . .

  I tuck my phone away and touch up my lipstick as I arrive for the party. Ryan’s first event is a cocktail party on the roof a swanky hotel downtown. There’s a bar set up on one side of the lushly landscaped patio and a jazz band swinging away on the other. Twinkly white lights make a canopy against the dusky sky. Ryan’s already here, standing near the bar talking to an older guy in a seersucker blazer and clutching a Manhattan on the rocks.

  Damn, Ryan looks good tonight. He’s wearing a crisp button-down that still clings to his torso, and he’s definitely standing out with his athletic physique compared to all the finance guys.

  He looks over and catches me ogling. He excuses himself, and he comes over, dropping a kiss on my cheek. “Is it hot up here?” he asks, yanking at his collar. “I feel like I’m sweating my balls off.”

  I laugh. Not so smooth, after all. “I mean, it’s Miami,” I point out, taking in his lightweight navy suit pants and the cool, classic watch on his wrist. “You look great.”

  “Thanks,” he says, looking distracted.

  “You OK?” I ask, taking in his furrowed brow and the faint twitch of a muscle in his sharp, chiseled jaw. “Ready to do this?’

  “Yep,” Ryan says, his voiced oddly clipped. “Great.”

  OK, then.

  Ryan goes to get me a drink while I take a moment to scan the party, trying to get a read on the crowd. I’m not here to troll for new clients, necessarily, but there’s no harm in mixing a little business with . . . well. Other business, I guess.

  Plus, it helps to get the lay of the land. After all, I’m here to back up Ryan, so I find him at the bar and steer him into the crowd. I’m expecting him to hold court the same way he did at brunch yesterday—the same way he’s done in every social situation I’ve ever seen him in, gregarious and charming and just the slightest bit goofy—but instead, with every new introduction, his expression is anxious, even pained.

  “Herbert Carver, AMC Capital.”

  “Uh. Hi, I’m Callahan. I mean, Ryan Callahan. I’m not with anyone. Except Olivia here. Did you meet? She’s my, uh, Olivia.”

  It almost hurts to watch, and it doesn’t get any better as the evening continues. Ryan alternates between fumbled, slow responses and wild chattering. I can practically see the beads of nervous sweat forming on his forehead.

  He’s tanking, I realize.

  Majorly.

  I can’t watch anymore, especially knowing how much this means to him. “I’m sorry,” I interrupt, curling my hand around Ryan’s bicep. “Can I just borrow him for one moment?”

  Ryan doesn’t argue. He lets me lead him over to a quiet corner near the edge of the rooftop. Miami is glowing in the twilight, but right now I don’t care about the scenery, I need to deal with the car wreck right in front of me. “OK.” I grab a glass of water from a passing waiter and shove it into his hand. “Take a deep breath, drink this, and talk to me. What the hell is going on with you tonight?”

  He looks tense. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Sure. I just watched you bomb with like, five different investors. You were talking about your favorite jockstrap. Ryan, come on, you’re better than this!”

  “How would you even know that?” he says sharply, then blows out a frustrated breath. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m dying out there!”

  I soften. “What’s going on? I’ve seen you work a crowd. You normally have people eating out of your hand.”

  “I don’t know!” He rakes a hand through his thick, wavy hair. “I guess I get spooked around guys like this,” he admits, glancing at the scrum of finance bros milling around the bar—Tristan types, I realize suddenly, polished and moneyed and the tiniest bit bland. “I didn’t grow up around that kind of cash. I don’t know how to schmooze. That’s why I brought you along, remember?”

  “I know,” I sigh, reaching out before I can think better of it. I rub soothingly up and down his arm—absolutely ignoring his muscles. “But you can do this. The whole point is, you’re different. You’re not from this world, and that’s your angle. They know facts and figures, but you have the experience to back it up. PowerBar is a great idea, and you’re exactly the right guy to sell it.”

  “I thought so, but tonight?” He shakes his head again, defeated. “I’m not so sure.”

  “I am,” I insist. “I mean it, Ryan. You’ve got this. You’re smart, and capable, and funny as all hell.”

  That gets his attention. “You think I’m funny?” he asks, looking surprised.

  I grin. “From time to time. The point is, who are these people anyway? A bunch of boring, uptight finance guys? You’re Ryan freaking Callahan. You could walk into any other bar in the city and have guys lining up to shake your hand—and girls throwing their panties at you.”

  Ryan grins. “This is quite the pep talk you’re giving me here.”

  I smile. “Is it working yet?”

  “Almost. You forgot to tell me how handsome I am, though.”

  I laugh out loud. “Oh my God, seriously?”

  “Aw, come on,” he teases, curling a hand around my waist and squeezing gently. “I need you. My poor ego took a bruising. Isn’t this part of your job?”

  “Fine. You’re very handsome,” I say, rolling my eyes—although it’s not like it isn’t true. “Is that what you need to hear?”

  “Yes, actually,” he says with a smile before glancing me up and down. His expression is appreciative, like he’s seeing me for the first time. “You’re not so bad-looking yourself, princess. That’s a pretty dress.”

  A warm, pleased flush creeps over my skin. I like the feeling of his eyes on me way too much for a gig like this.

  Boundaries. Professionalism. Remember?

  “Come on,” I say, dragging my attention back to the point. “Let’s go knock ‘em dead.”

  7

  Olivia

  From the moment we step back out into the crowd, I can tell Ryan’s loosening up. His shoulders have settled. He’s relaxed his glass-shattering death grip on his cocktail. And he’s wearing the first real smile I’ve seen out of him since I got here. We approach another grou
p of suits, and this time, instead of fumbling his intro, he reaches out with a firm handshake.

  “Ryan Callahan,” he says, flashing his trademark smile. “CEO of PowerBar, great to meet you.”

  “Holy shit, I’m a fan,” the guy replies, eyes widening.

  “Oh yeah? That’s great to hear,” Ryan replies smoothly. “But let me tell you, training for a Super Bowl has nothing on the boot camp I went through prepping to pitch my big idea. I don’t know how you guys do it every day.”

  The guy puffs up, with hero worship in his eyes. “Thanks, man. So what’s this PowerBar venture?”

  “Well, let me tell you . . .” Ryan launches into his spiel, with zero hesitation this time.

  I let out an invisible sigh of relief. Now we’re talking. Ryan kills the elevator pitch with this guy, and trades cards before moving on. Before I know it, he’s got Mason Dubeck himself cracking up with a story about some of his old teammates accidentally wandering into a male strip club on amateur night in New Orleans.

  “I’m not saying we didn’t wind up on stage taking home the prize, but let’s just say those Magic Mike guys have nothing on us.”

  The group laughs heartily, and none louder than Dubeck. He’s a short, balding man in his sixties, but he radiates total confidence and power—which I guess comes easy when you’re worth a couple billion and were an early investor in Uber, Snapchat, and YouTube. “That sounds like one hell of a party,” Dubeck chuckles.

  “Yes, sir,” Ryan grins. “But don’t get me wrong, we had hell to pay come training the next morning. That’s one thing I learned playing pro—there’s no replacement for good old-fashioned practice. You need to put the hours in if you’re going to perform right, which is why I’ve waited to recruit outside investment until PowerBar is more than just an idea; it’s a proven concept.”

  “PowerBar, huh?” Dubeck looks thoughtful. “You know, I’ve been looking for something in the food space . . .”

  He’s briefly distracted by a passing tray of sliders, and I take the chance to give Ryan’s arm a squeeze.

  “Nice job, QB,” I whisper, impressed by the smooth pivot to business.

  “Thanks, boss,” he winks back.

  “Does this fine hunk of a man belong to you?” asks a woman’s voice behind me. I turn to find a tall, tailored southern belle in a brightly colored Lilly Pulitzer dress. She’s probably in her early fifties, but looks younger, with a sleek copper bob and smooth, unblemished skin. I wonder who does her Botox.

  “He does,” I say with a smile. I put a hand out. “Olivia Danvers.”

  “Arianna Dubeck,” she says as we shake.

  “Oh! Lovely to meet you,” I say, acting surprised. The truth is I’ve already researched her, and have been watching out of the corner of my eye for her all night. “Mason’s wife.”

  “Guilty as charged,” she says. She motions to my wine glass. “Shall we go get you a refill?”

  Ryan doesn’t need my babysitting anymore, and besides, Arianna is going to be a great source of info about her husband, so I follow her over to the bar. “It’s so nice to find another woman to chat to. I get so bored with all that dick-measuring,” she says, flagging down the bartender. “I mean, of course it’s part of the culture, bragging about who closed what deal, but they’re all just little boys, really, showing off their toys. Except Mason, of course. And your Callahan,” she adds with a smirk. “He looks like a real man.”

  I blink. “He’s . . . great,” I answer finally. “A really good guy.”

  “And easy on the eye,” she winks. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. I’m old enough not to give a fuck, playing polite. Life’s so much easier without all the proper small talk, don’t you think?”

  “Sounds good to me.” I like her already, even though I’m still on my best behavior. We take our drinks and make ourselves comfortable on a cushioned wicker sofa on the far side of the rooftop. Arianna is easy to talk to, and we chat for a while about her work in the children’s hospital in Miami, and all the salacious gossip from last year’s retreat. “Look at them, panting for Mason’s attention,” she says fondly, watching the scrum. “I have an MBA from Princeton too, but you don’t see me whipping it out and rubbing it on the table at every available opportunity.”

  I snort into my wine glass.

  “That’s how I met Mason,” she continues. “I was one of the only women in the program back then, so I made it my mission to leave him in the dust at every available opportunity. Lucky for us both, he’s always been up for a challenge.”

  “Sounds like a great partnership,” I say, meaning it. I’ve always loved the idea of a partner who could push me to be my best—and not get threatened by my successes.

  “What about you and Ryan?” Arianna asks, raising her elegant eyebrows over the bowl of her wine glass. “We’re quite the football fans in our house, so I was excited when Mason told me he might be investing in a former player. Especially, forgive me, one who looks your beau over there.”

  “He’s a catch,” I agree, following her gaze and taking a moment to appreciate the curve of his ass inside those suit pants. Ahem, boundaries.

  “How did you meet?”

  “Oh, just through mutual friends,” I reply. He may have a truly fantastic tight end, but I’m grateful Ryan’s not over here to make up some charming story about me flashing my tits in the end zone or showing up at his hotel room wearing nothing but a Callahan jersey and stilettos.

  Which is probably exactly the kind of thing that would get him off, actually.

  For one truly demented second I imagine it, then push the thought out of my mind. What does or does not get Ryan off is the last thing I need to be thinking about right now.

  “It’s still pretty new,” I admit, turning my attention back to Arianna, “but we have a great time together.” It’s not until the words are out of my mouth that I realize I’m not lying for her benefit—I have been having a good time with Ryan the last couple of days. “And I’m really impressed by his plans for PowerBar.”

  Arianna nods. “Mason told me a bit about that,” she says. “Food kiosks, right?”

  “Oh, it’s way more than your average joint.” I pull my phone out of my clutch to show her the mockups of the restaurant Ryan sent me, guessing—correctly, it turns out—that the way to sell Arianna is with the design. We spend the next ten minutes debating logo design and paint colors, and by the time the Ryan and Mason wander over to join us, I’ve got her talking as if the whole thing is already a done deal—which, spoiler alert, was my secret plan all along.

  “Glad to see you two are getting acquainted,” Mason says, rubbing a familiar hand over his wife’s back.

  “Oh, we’re old friends,” Arianna says warmly. She looks at Ryan. “Your girlfriend’s taste is impeccable.”

  “That’s what I keep telling her,” Ryan agrees. I scoot over so he can sit down beside me, his warm, muscular thigh pressed against my bare one. Mason pulls up a chair and the four of us chat for a while longer about the best restaurants in Miami, the places we should be sure not to miss while we’re here. I like them, I realize—they’re warm and funny and generous, and seem to have a genuine partnership. It’s the kind of marriage my parents had, actually, back when my mom was alive.

  Finally, Mason claps a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “All right,” he says, “us old folks have got to be heading out, but, but we should talk some more about the project before this week is out.”

  “Why don’t the two of you come out on the boat later this week?” Arianna pipes up, giving me a smile. “We can have some lunch, get into some of the details.”

  “That sounds great,” Ryan says, and though he keeps it together, I can tell he’s barely containing the world’s cheesiest touchdown dance. And it’s not like I can blame him—I’m hardly holding back a fist pump myself.

  A one-on-one with Mason Dubeck? That’s like scoring the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl, in investor terms.

  Ryan just nailed th
is event.

  We keep it together long enough to say our goodbyes and head down to the street, but once we’re on the sidewalk—and out of sight—Ryan turns to me and scoops me up off my feet, twirling me around. “Holy shit,” he cries, “that was amazing.”

  “They love you,” I laugh, flustered by the feel of him—and trying not to be.

  “They love us,” he counters. “Seriously, Olivia, I couldn’t have done it without you.” He loosens his tie and undoes his top shirt button, visibly relaxing for the first time all night. “Damn, all that schmoozing really works up an appetite. I’m starving.”

  “Success makes you hungry?” I tease.

  “Yep.” Ryan grins a little wolfishly, and my stomach flips over. I’m suddenly hungry too, but in a whole different way. “You wanna get some real food?”

  I know I shouldn’t, we’re already on shaky ground with all the touching and ass-checking-out, but I don’t want this night to end. I nod, slipping my hand into his and squeezing before I can stop myself. “Let’s do it.”

  We hop in a cab and he takes me to a Cuban place a buddy of his recommended, a tiny dive with a live band and mojitos so deliciously strong they make my eyes water. We sit at a table in the corner that’s barely bigger than a dinner plate, Ryan’s knee brushing my bare one. A candle flickers in a green glass votive between us, the light casting shadows over his chiseled face.

  “Thanks again for your help back there,” he says, once we’ve toasted to tonight’s success. “I don’t know why I choked so hard. You’d think by now I’d be over getting my panties in a wad over rich guys, but honestly I don’t think I’ll ever be totally comfortable around people like that.”

  “Didn’t grow up with a silver spoon in your mouth, huh?” I ask, curious to know more. I have the background file that Alice compiles on all our clients—she’s like Miss Moneypenny with that stuff—but it doesn’t have more than the basics, and all his charming interviews.

  “No, not exactly.” Ryan grins. “I’m from rural Michigan, remember? The only thing we had a lot of was snow.” He shrugs, pulling the cocktail straw out of his glass before taking a sip. “When I got drafted back in college I couldn’t even imagine that kind of money. I was almost a little bit scared of it at first, you know?”